


Coming Home

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky needs a hug, F/M, Sort of hurt/comfort, also to smash things, let our cinnamon roll rest, obv written WAY before IW and EG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22223845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: He’s always so careful unlocking your door, never once letting his mood show in the turn of the key or the push of his hand to swing the door open. It’s only once he’s inside, safe, home, that he lets himself celebrate or crumble.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 93





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Another crosspost, originally written for a tumblr user marvelous-fvcks writing challenge with the prompt "this is the first and LAST time I am giving you permission to punch through the walls."

It’s never an easy thing when he comes home. One would think the waiting is worse, but for you, it’s the seconds between the key turning in the lock and Bucky stepping in that grate more on your nerves. You can do waiting. Waiting is… not exactly easy, but you know what to expect. When your relationship started getting serious, Bucky asked Tony to allow your phone to be patched into F.R.I.D.A.Y’s system so that a text message would be sent to you upon completed mission. So waiting is easy. Either he’s coming home, or he’s not. You just never know in what condition. The text messages mention nothing about the mission he’s returning from, nothing beyond estimated time of arrival in New York, to which you have learned to add a good two hours for debrief and traffic. You’ve never asked for more, and though it might make things easier, you don’t think you ever could. It would bring that part of his life too close, and Bucky himself has insisted he want to keep you from the gritty side of his job as much as possible.

He’s always so careful unlocking your door, never once letting his mood show in the turn of the key or the push of his hand to swing the door open. It’s only once he’s inside, safe, _home_ , that he lets himself celebrate or crumble. 

Today you can almost taste the outcome in the air as soon as he enters. It must have been bad if he can’t contain it even for the few seconds it takes to step inside. His hair is grimy, his clothes looking like they’ve been lying in the hamper already and his metal hand is balled into a tight fist. The discomfort and pain radiates from him, hits you like a rogue wave that has you drawing a breath in preparation.

“Bucky?”

His gaze, trained on his feet, snaps up and you can’t help but flinch because he looks so much like a wounded animal. You know that under that bulky sweater, there are muscles coiled tight, unable to completely relax, vigilance running through his veins as his mind screams at him to expect danger. Slowly letting raising your arms, you take a careful step forward, gauging his response. There’s the barest recoil that he almost manages to suppress, but he doesn’t move.

“It was bad, wasn’t it?” you speak, your voice even and mellow, “I don’t need to hear about it, it’s okay. You’re safe here, Bucky.”

His shoulders rise and fall like clockwork; he’s trying to keep himself under control, trying to force down his instincts. The hard edge in his eyes slowly softens, a sign that he recognizes you, knows you’re not a threat. It spurs you on to close the distance, to take his right arm and place it over your heart. His fingers feel cold against your warm skin, your breath hitching.

“C’mon, breathe with me. Feel my heartbeat. In and out, Bucky.”

It usually helps, and sure, it gets his breathing a little slower, a little less mechanical, but he’s still tense. The tips of his fingers are only just keeping from digging into your skin. It makes you wanna call Steve, call Tony, call whoever is in command and give them a piece of your mind for dragging Bucky into something that has him coming home like this. Part of him is clearly still on mission, still searching for a target, for closure.

Putting your hand over his, you start backing further into the apartment. Maybe this is a shitty idea and maybe it will backfire, but you need to do something. Dividing your living room space from your kitchen area is a plastered brick wall. It’s solid, but not load-bearing, and you keep going until your back is against it before letting go and taking a step to the side.

“I don’t know what happened. I don’t need to know. But Bucky, you’re still out there. I don’t care who your mind paints on there, but you punch that bastard, and you punch him hard.”

It’s enough to have his gaze flit to you, to shift from passive to guarded and curious. It’s not enough to pull him out, and you try to ignore the sting when you realize he thinks you’re trying to trick him.

Cupping his cheeks, you fixate him with a look that you hope conveys every ounce of honesty and trust for him that you have, 

“Buck… I need you to come home. If this could help then that’s it. This is the first and LAST time I am giving you permission to punch through the walls. Look at it. It’s a blank canvas. Paint whoever’s keeping you from me on it and do what you need to do. I- “ Your voice breaks and you swallow hard, squeezing the hand still resting against your chest. “I’ll be in the bathroom, okay? I know you don’t want me to… to see you like th- that. I won’t, I promise. I’ll wait for you.”

It hurts leaving him there, but it’s the deal you have made. He keeps the Soldier, the fighting, the dangers away from you. You fear he won’t take it, that he’ll consider this too close to you and instead run.

Shutting the bathroom door behind you feels like abandonment. You should be there. The man you love is in distress and you, what? Gave him a brick wall and left. _I can’t have you see this, sweetheart. I can’t have you placed at risk._ His words from all those months ago echo in your head, and you let them repeat, lull themselves into some semblance of assuredness as you turn the tap on, waiting until the water turns warm before pushing the plunger into the bottom of the tub.

Of course you hear him. Running water can’t match metal against brick, and you feel like you could cry with relief, fill the tub yourself and bathe in the knowledge that enough of him came home to fight against this. You try not to count the punches, try not to feel so elated with the dull thud of crumbling mortar. You add some bubble bath to the half-filled tub, letting your left hand glide through the water, adjusting the temperature of the water as needed. Most often, you’re the one leaning up against Bucky, but tonight, you’re ready to wrestle him into the tub to get his back against your chest.

The punches subside, leaving behind a hollow silence as reality tries to reset. You patiently wait, letting him take the time he needs. When he finally knocks on the door, you open it, pulling him in without questions, hugging him tight and undressing him. The front of him is covered in white dust, and you smile at the picture he paints, looking a little like something out of those old silent movies he’s shown you. Bucky still doesn’t say anything, but you know he’s better. The tension has dissipated, he relaxes under your touch, lets you steer him into the bath while you undress yourself, scoots forward when you tap his back to allow you the place you were ready to fight for.

He practically melts against you, giving little huffs and sighs when you wet his hair and wash it for him, scrubbing his back and let your right hand drift down his side to drag the loofah over that one spot that is so delightfully ticklish.

“I’m… sorry.”

They’re the first words he’s said since walking through the door, two beautiful little words that you want to push back at him.

“It’s okay, Bucky, it’s-”

“Your wall has a hole in it.”

The tone is sharp, pointed, as if to deter you, but you merely wrap your arms around his chest and pull him closer.

“What was on the other side?”

He’s stumped for a moment. “Your kitchen. God, I must’a demolished your kitchen, baby, I’m so sorry.”

“Bucky. Bucky! I’ve been asking my super about remodeling, taking away that eyesore. There’s never been anything on the other side of that wall. You didn’t ruin anything. Probably dusted up the kitchen pretty good, but I assume you know how to use a vacuum cleaner…”

Bucky huffs out a laugh, letting out a long breath that releases whatever lingering stress that still held him. He’s done fighting. He’s finally home.


End file.
